Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow
by ButterfingerBarsAreAwesome
Summary: "She hasn't cried in two years, and she's not about to start now." SHELVED FOR NOW.


**Title: **Don't Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)  
**Genre: **Superheroes/Drama  
**Pairings/Characters:** Brittany Pierce/Santana Lopez, Sam Evans, Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, Quinn Fabray, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mike Chang  
**Setting: **New York City, present day. AU.  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Spoilers: **None yet.  
**Word Count:** About 5.2k.  
**Summary: **_She hasn't cried in two years, and she's not about to start now._  
**A/N: **This is the first chapter of a fic that I originally wrote for Bramtana Week, intending for it to be a one-shot, but I got carried away. If enough people like it, I'll continue it. Brittana is featured more heavily than Bramtana, but Sam is definitely the third character.

"This is Special Agent Lopez, checking in."

The walkie-talkie gives a muted crackle, and she resists the urge to crush the useless thing in the palm of her hand. Breathing heavily through her nose, she takes the stairs up to the roof ten at a time, and she's panting by the time she pushes the door open and climbs up. Not with exertion (it takes a lot more than fifty flights to tire Santana Lopez), but with anticipation. Standing on the roof of a five-hundred-foot skyscraper never ceases to amaze her, even after four years.

She tries the walkie-talkie again. "Special Agent Lopez, checking in."

Again, a crackle. Annoyed, she squeezes it a little too hard and it explodes. "Shit!"

She drops it on the ground and walks to the edge of the building, looking down at the crowded streets. Squinting, she makes out the Empire State Building a few hundred yards away, so she knows she's in the right place. Impatiently, she sits, legs dangling over the edge. She pulls out her cell phone to call Brittany on the off chance that the blonde has her phone with her, but it doesn't matter. There's no service. She sighs and pockets the phone before she has the chance to smash it. Piece of crap.

The sound of feet behind her startles her and she spins around just in time to see the door opening. It only takes a second to see that it's no one she knows, and a second is all she needs to launch herself off the side of the building.

* * *

She takes a right and heads down a side street, keeping to the shadows as she pulls out the walkie-talkie. "Special Agent Pierce, checking in."

Of course, no one answers. "Anyone there? Santana?"

Sighing, she pockets it and breaks into a jog, taking two more turns before slowing. She glances to the left, and smiles at the sight of a dark figure falling from the top of a building. She's found Santana, but Sam's nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Sam bolts out of the bathroom at the train station, trying desperately to keep his speed in check so as not to alarm anyone. Once he turns into a secluded alleyway, he pulls out his walkie-talkie and unmutes it. "Guys?"

"Sam! Jesus!"

"Brittany, where are you?"

"Where are you?"

"Coming up on Times Square."

She sighs; it crackles impatiently over the device. "Hurry up. We'll meet you there."

* * *

Santana lands silently on the sidewalk, hidden behind the corner of the building. Quietly, she creeps out and jogs down the street until an arm reaches from the shadows and grabs her shirt. "Not so fast, Lopez."

"Brittany! Don't do that!"

"Do what?"

Santana huffs angrily. "Never mind. Where's Sam?"

"Times Square. Where's your walkie-talkie?"

"Um, dead."

"Great," Brittany rolls her eyes. "I'll call Quinn and tell her to hurry up with those earbud things. Walkie-talkies are just too delicate for you and your iron grip."

"You don't mind that iron grip in bed though, do you," Santana grins obnoxiously.

"Not the time or place, Santana," Brittany growls, trying to ignore the fact that she's kind of turned on thinking about their latest half-hour hotel rendezvous. "We need to go."

"What's the rush? You're late anyway; we were supposed to meet up there." She motions to the building behind her.

"Sam's scanner picked something up. Another loose murderer."

"Another one? Jesus."

Brittany rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

"Fine. Get on." Santana bends down and hold her arms out for Brittany to clamber aboard. "And hold tight. We're going via rooftop tonight; too many people out on the streets."

* * *

Sam sinks down on the bottom stair in front of the ticket booth and draws his arms around his legs. It's cold; maybe he'll ask Brittany to warm him up when she gets here.

He fidgets with the zipper on his coat until they drop down in front of him, so quickly that they appear to have stepped up next to him.

"Hey," he says as Brittany jumps down from Santana's back and straightens her shirt. "So it happened on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Some guy threw a chick off the bridge and now he's on the run. Captain Puckerman's over there."

Santana nods. "I'll go up on the roof and look around from there. Britt, you come with me. Sam, go talk to Puckerman and let us know what's up."

He nods. "Britt, I'm freezing."

She places her hand on his arm for a moment and he's immediately warm. "Thanks," he says gratefully. "I forgot my coat earlier."

She rolls her eyes. "You better go before you get cold again."

* * *

Once he's away from Times Square, he breaks into a sprint, and it's only a matter of seconds before he comes to a quick stop beside the familiar hulking figure of Lieutenant Hudson. "Where's Puckerman?" he asks, and Hudson jumps.

"Sam!"

"Where's Puckerman? Quickly!"

"Uh…" He turns in a circle before shrugging. "I dunno."

"Thanks, Finn," Sam growls. "You're so helpful."

Leaving Hudson looking pleased with himself, Sam runs along the bridge until he meets the Captain.

"Puck!"

The Captain turns around. "Sam. So we've recovered the body of the girl who was thrown, and her name was Tina Cohen-Chang. She had a boyfriend: Artie Abrams. According to her friends she was cheating on him with Mike Chang. It's a pretty predictable case. Abrams probably found out about the other guy and got violent. We've also got his fingerprints on the railing above where she was thrown." He hands Sam a small picture. "This was in her wallet. It's the only picture we have at the moment. If you see this guy, grab him."

Sam takes the picture and studies it. The man is has dark, sideways-brushed hair, blue eyes, and a nice smile.

"He's in a wheelchair," Puckerman admits, dragging a hand through his Mohawk.

"What?"

He shrugs. "I don't know how he did it. But the prints are here, so we need to find him."

"What the hell."

"I don't know, Sam, but a girl was killed." Puckerman hands him another picture. "This is her. You need to go."

Sam nods as he tucks both pictures away into his jeans pocket, jogging a little on the spot to keep warm. "Catch you later, Captain."

* * *

Santana leaps stealthily from one rooftop to another, Brittany's fingernails digging into her shoulders, as she receives the description of Artie Abrams via Brittany's walkie-talkie. She skids to a stop when she hears his disability. "What the fuck?" she yells. "That's not possible!"

"Jesus, Santana, apparently it is possible. Where are you?"

"Empire State Building."

"Just check—" Abruptly he cuts off.

"Sam? Shit!"

"Calm down," Brittany murmurs in her ear, her hands squeezing Santana's arms, and instantly Santana feels herself relax. Thank God for Brittany's skills.

"Okay. We don't know where he is, but we do know that we're faster than him, so we'll just make a sweep. Sam's checking the buildings," Santana says.

"Let's go," Brittany says. "Take a right."

* * *

Sam runs quickly through the city, weaving through buildings. The Captain sent out a citywide TV and radio signal with a description, and if Abrams has heard this, he won't be in any buildings where he could be spotted.

He knows how these peoples' minds work; he's had so much practice that he could track one in his sleep. Not as well as Brittany, of course, but she has an advantage.

He skips anywhere that has a TV, which is 99% of New York City. He tries the walkie-talkie again, and though its battery is drained, it gives a feeble beep. "Santana?"

"Hey."

"My walkie-talkie's dying. Meet me at the Empire State so I can show you this picture, okay?"

"Sure. I'll have Britt memorize it."

"Sounds good." He stows it back in his pocket and sprints to the building, easily visible due to its height. He sighs as he takes another detour, wishing for Santana's strength instead of his own speed.

Finally he stands in front of the building and waves in the general direction of the top, knowing Brittany's powerful eyes will spot him if Santana's normal ones don't. A moment later they drop down, making almost no noise against the concrete. Without speaking, he pulls out the photo and shows it to them.

"Got it," Brittany says, nodding, the image stored away in her mind.

"Good," Santana mutters. "Let's go chase some crippled ass."

* * *

They've been building-hopping for only ten minutes when Brittany gasps and points down. "What?" Santana asks, squinting downwards. "Did you see him?"

"Yeah," Brittany whispers. "Get down there."

Santana leaps down, the sixty-story building blurring behind her as they fall. She lands on the sidewalk, knees bent, and waits for directions from Brittany.

"That way," she whispers, forgetting that not everyone has super-senses like her, and Abrams couldn't hear her from a hundred yards away. "But…I heard footsteps, not wheels."

Santana groans. "So it's not him."

"No! It is! I saw him!"

Santana knows better than to ask whether Brittany's sure, because Brittany's always sure. "Fine," she says, gritting her teeth. "I guess the little bastard got himself some leg implants, then?"

Brittany doesn't answer, and Santana takes off after him, frustrated with her slowness compared to Sam's ridiculous speed.

They turn a corner and Brittany points to the right, down an alley through which a dark figure is running. Santana doesn't hesitate before throwing Brittany onto her back and leaping to the top of the office building beside her, running across it, and landing on the other side. She smirks when she sees him coming their way; this is her favorite part of this job.

As soon as he's within a few feet, she steps out. "Lost our wheels, haven't we, ass-wipe?" she grins, and gleans a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from the scream he lets out. She darts forward and twists his wrists behind his back, resisting the urge to snap them. She spins him to face Brittany. "You're sure it's him?"

"Positive," Brittany says, and Santana grins.

"You, buddy, are coming with us," she growls to him. "Artie Abrams, I believe."

"No," he spits. She smirks.

"Must suck to be so far gone that you don't even know your name."

"Santana," Brittany warns.

"Sorry," Santana says. "Tell Sam to get over here with Puckerman, okay?"

When Brittany turns around to call Sam, Abrams tries to make a break for it. Santana knocks him out with a flick of her finger and he slumps, unconscious, a knot already forming on his skull.

* * *

Sam grins with relief when Brittany's voice comes through his walkie-talkie, and he's glad he stopped for fresh batteries when she tells him that they're caught Abrams. He chokes over his own spit when she says he's not in the chair.

"Little fucker," he growls. "Had everyone fooled, didn't he?"

"Sure did," Brittany agrees. "We've got him here, and—" she sighs "—Santana's just knocked him out. So come when you can, okay?"

He shakes his head. "I'll be there in a few seconds. Let me just pick up the Captain."

"Sure. See you soon."

He turns around and sets off for the bridge again. Everyone's still there when he arrives, and he wastes no time filling Puckerman in.

"Great. Need a ride over?"

"I'm good," he grins. "I'm faster than your cars anyway."

"True," Puckerman chuckles. "Hudson! Get your ass over here!"

Hudson lumbers over and clambers into the car. "See you in a few, Sam," Puckerman says with a wave, and Sam nods and takes off as the car pulls onto the road.

He reaches them within thirty seconds. Without looking up, Santana greets him. "'Sup."

"Hey," he says, bending down to check out the guy. "Yeah, that's definitely him. Jesus, Santana, I hope you didn't kill him!" he gasps upon seeing the huge lump on Abrams' head.

"Oh course I didn't!" Santana says defensively. Puckerman's car pulls up, sirens off, and Hudson climbs out. Santana wrinkles her nose.

"Hello, Finn," she says unenthusiastically. "Got the cuffs?"

He nods oafishly and slips them onto Abrams' wrists before lifting him into the backseat with a grunt.

"Thanks guys," Puckerman says, shaking each of their hands in turn. "Another productive night catching criminals, huh?"

Santana nods and Brittany giggles. "No prob, Puck," Brittany's says with a strained grin. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too," he says, climbing into the car. "Later, guys."

They wave, and stand in silence once he's gone. Santana sighs. "That was unusually fun. Wanna grab a hotel, Britt?"

"Gross!" Sam exclaims. "No way!"

"Excuse me, was I asking for a threesome?' Santana narrows her eyes at him. "No, I was not." She turns back to Brittany. "What do you say, Britt-Britt?"

"Who am I to refuse?" Brittany smirks, taking her hand. "I don't spend enough time with my girlfriend anyway."

"Awesome," Santana says. "Bye, Sam."

"Bye!" Brittany giggles before letting Santana lead her off, leaving Sam looking disgusted.

* * *

Santana fumbles for the key card as she pins Brittany against the wall, the blonde's feet barely touching the ground. She jams it in, trying desperately not to break it, and the door swings open. She sighs and picks Brittany up with one arm, throwing her over her shoulder. "Hey!" Brittany squeals. "Not fair!"

"Suck it up," Santana laughs. "You're mine."

She kicks the door closed and throws Brittany down on the bed, straddling her. Brittany reaches for Santana's shirt, but Santana slaps her hands away. "No touching!"

Brittany groans. "Come on."

Santana grins wickedly as she reaches for the buttons of Brittany's shirt. "If you touch me you'll make me feel obedient or something, and it's not fair to use your little power things against me in bed."

"What about your super-muscles?" Brittany teases. Santana rolls her eyes, pushing Brittany's head down onto the pillow and kissing her.

"My super-muscles make you feel super-good, stop griping."

Suddenly Brittany's hand snakes its way into Santana's shirt. Santana groans and arches into the touch. Brittany smirks. "That is true," she whispers into Santana's ear. "But from past experience, I think I've made you feel pretty good too."

Santana sighs and grinds down onto Brittany's leg. "Whatever."

"Someone's impatient," Brittany giggles, pulling at Santana's coat. She yanks it off before sitting up.

"What now?" Santana asks.

"Sit _up_," Brittany sighs. "I can't get to your shirt." Santana does, grumpily. Brittany smiles and kisses her, teasing licks of tongue into her mouth with each push of her body against Santana's. She reaches to pull Santana's shirt over her head, unsnapping her bra quickly and leaning in to wrap her lips around a nipple. Santana gasps and grabs at the back of Brittany's head. "Britt-Britt—"

She forgets about the buttons and rips Brittany's shirt off with ease, dropping it onto the floor.

"Don't tear my pants, okay?" Brittany asks, her voice muffled against Santana's breast. "I really like these jeans."

"Okay, baby," Santana whispers, and unbuttons the pants gently, pulling them slowly down Brittany's legs. Brittany smiles and her kisses trail back up to Santana's mouth, her hand taking the place of her mouth on Santana's breast. Santana unclasps Brittany's bra as Brittany reaches for Santana's pants. They struggle out of the clothing, leaving their underwear on.

Their kisses drag then, neither of them able to resist slowing things down. Santana hooks her fingers in Brittany's panties and pulls them down tenderly, and Brittany mirrors her after a minute. It's kind of their thing, to start fast and slow it down. Slow but rough, Brittany calls it.

Brittany places her hand on Santana's arm, and Santana feels her arousal triple in intensity. She groans and pulls Brittany against her. "Don't do that!"

Brittany snickers and touches her again, and this time Santana feels as though a bucket of ice water has been dumped over her head. "Shit!"

Brittany cracks up. "You're so fun to mess with."

"You are asking for it, Miss Pierce," Santana growls, and pins Brittany against the opposite wall in one swift movement, one hand against her bare chest. With her other hand she holds Brittany's wrists above her head so Brittany can't mess with her emotions. Damn her and her empathic manipulation crap. Santana's just lucky she herself is so strong, because when Brittany's mad at her, it sucks if she gets ahold of Santana.

Santana grins. "What shall I do with you?" She tips Brittany toward the fridge. "I could dump you in the freezer…"

"No! No, please," Brittany begs, knowing Santana's more than capable of revenge.

"Well, in case you don't know, being dumped in ice sucks _ass_," Santana smirks. "But I could do other things too…it's so hard to decide."

"Jesus!" Brittany groans. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Santana can't resist reaching down for a quick kiss. "Okay," she whispers, and has Brittany flat on the bed in less than half a second. Brittany reaches up and they kiss playfully, Santana still holding Brittany's wrists.

"I love you," Brittany murmurs, and wriggles out of Santana's grip to place a hand on her cheek. Santana's body warms and buzzes, and she smiles gratefully.

"I love you too, Britt-Britt," she smiles, kissing Brittany's cheek. "You're awesome."

"You're awesomer," Brittany counters. Santana chuckles.

"No way."

Brittany pulls her head down and they kiss languidly, Santana tapping her fingers along Brittany's side as she makes her way down. When she reaches the place between Brittany's legs, she smiles against Brittany's lips as she gently strokes small circles around her clit. Brittany groans. "Don't tease, baby, come on."

Santana kisses her into silence, slipping two fingers into Brittany and receiving a muffled moan in response. She nuzzles her face into Brittany's neck, sucking lightly, and smirks at the hickey that blossoms there. Even her lips have super-strength; she barely grazed them against Brittany's neck.

She sits to straddle Brittany, changing the angle of her hand as she crawls down Brittany's squirming body until she can wrap her lips around Brittany's clit. Brittany throws an arm over her mouth to keep herself quiet, and Santana smirks. The power in her body always has Brittany writhing with pleasure. Santana pokes her tongue out to skirt lower, moving her fingers faster.

"Jesus, Santana," Brittany groans. "You're so good at this."

Santana doesn't respond, but grins. Brittany's breathing picks up and she squeezes Santana's hand, not to make her feel anything but to ground herself to the bed. It's only a few more seconds until Brittany's gasping, her hips arching into Santana's touch, and her hand in Santana's gripping almost painfully.

Santana brings her down slowly and remains slumped, grinning, against Brittany's flat stomach. Brittany's breathing gradually slows, and she smiles down at Santana. "I love you," Santana breathes happily.

"I love you too," Brittany smiles as she brushes Santana's hair out of her eyes. "Why don't you let me show you how much?"

* * *

Brittany rolls them over until she's straddling Santana, kissing her lazily. Slowly, she drags her hand down Santana's side, down past her knees and back up to trace over her arms. She flattens Santana to the bed with a graze of her lips over Santana's collarbone, and Santana gasps, her chest heaving, as each touch of Brittany's fingertips creates a tingle that shoots straight to her center.

"Brittany—"

Brittany cuts her off with a kiss as she plunges two fingers into Santana. She sighs with relief, and clutches Brittany closer to her chest, mumbling into her ear.

"You're beautiful, I love you, you're sweet, and perfect, and I—_fuck_."

Brittany snickers as she sends a second shockwave through her fingers. "How's that?"

"Good," is all Santana can manage. "Do it again."

Brittany twitches her fingers, and Santana falls over the edge, tumbling and flying at the same time, until Brittany brings her down gently, removing her fingers and kissing her slowly.

"I love you," she whispers in Santana's ear.

"Love you too," Santana mumbles.

Brittany nuzzles into her neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin there. Santana hums and strokes her fingers up and down Brittany' arms gently.

They both jump a foot when the hotel phone rings, beeping violently.

"Shit!" Santana gasps, clutching her chest.

Brittany laughs bitterly. "I'll get it. It's probably Sam."

"Tell him to fuck off," Santana growls, her face burrowed into Brittany's chest and their legs tangled.

"Hey," Brittany answers the phone with a smirk.

Santana shoves her face farther into Brittany's skin, breathing her in, knowing that she'll only have a second before they have to get up and chase someone, leaving this peaceful room with Brittany. She can't even remember the last time they made love and woke up together in the morning.

It's not like she can really ask for time off, either; criminals certainly don't care about that, and there's no way Sam can take anyone on his own.

"Okay, we'll be right there," Brittany says with a sigh, squeezing Santana's hand apologetically. She slams the phone down angrily. "This sucks."

Santana kisses her quickly. "Let's go," she whispers, reaching for Brittany's pants and underwear, as well as her own shirt, and handing them to her. She drags on her own underwear and jeans and pulls her coat and Brittany's ripped shirt around herself. She kisses Brittany once more before they leave the hotel.

* * *

They walk to Times Square slowly, hand in hand, for once not traveling by rooftop. Santana leans on Brittany, trying to stay warm in the chilly New York night. She checks her watch and sees that's it's close to two. They arrive at Times Square grumpy and cold, and ignore Sam's greeting. He sighs.

"Sorry, guys."

"What is it this time, Sam?" Brittany says quietly.

"Robbery. Some guy ran off with a few thousand bucks worth of jewels from that store." He points to a little jewelry store a few yards away. The window is broken and the shop owner stands outside with Puckerman and Hudson.

Santana forces herself to pay attention. "What time? Just now?"

"About ten minutes ago. We've got some detective guy looking around in there, so once he's done he'll tell you what you're looking for."

They nod, Santana leaning her head on Brittany's shoulder tiredly.

"Hey, guys, I'm really sorry," Sam says. "Maybe if you talk to Puckerman he'll give you a couple days off."

Brittany nods, knowing it won't happen. Sam shifts uncomfortably. "Well, anyway—"

He's cut off by the arrival of an uptight-looking man dressed impeccably in a dark suit, his hair slicked back and a frown etched into his aging face.

"I know who it is," he says grouchily.

"Then why don't you tell us?" Santana snaps.

"Lopez," Puckerman warns. She sighs and stands up straighter.

The man clears his throat, glaring at Santana. "I've looked over the evidence, and we ran the fingerprints through the optical scanner and this guy's already in the system. His name's Robert Matson, and he's wanted for multiple robberies as well as two homicides. He served three years back in '97 for the first robbery, but he hasn't been caught since."

"Fine," Santana grimaces. "What do you know about him?"

The detective yanks a photo out of his suit pocket and thrusts it at Santana, and she makes a point of not letting go of Brittany's hand as she takes it from him. She studies the man in the picture, tapping Brittany's hand with her fingers. It's clearly a mug shot, and Matson looks pissed. He has a reddish-brown buzz cut, dark hazel eyes, fair skin, and one long scar down the length of his jaw bone on the right. "Is this all we have?" Santana asks without looking up. Brittany fidgets beside her.

"He's thirty-four years old. Six-two, approximate weight is something like two-fifty. He's muscular; heavy."

"Typical," Brittany mutters, and Santana drops her hand to pull Brittany into the crook of her neck, sighing as she hands the picture back.

"So what are we doing now? Can we start tomorrow, or what?"

"Of course not!" The detective looks scandalized. "Matson's already wanted; we can't take any chances of him getting away again. We need you two and Evans to make a sweep. Start up in Bronx near the border and make your way downward. We got the report half an hour ago, and all the borders are blocked with officials, so he can't have gotten far. We've sent out a state-wide warning broadcast, telling anyone who sees him to call in immediately."

"Okay," Santana says, rubbing her eyes tiredly and pulling Brittany closer. "We'll get started, then."

"You do that," he nods. "Evans!"

Sam jogs up. "Yeah?"

"You know the drill. Start at Bronx, move south."

Sam nods, offering a small smile. "Yes, sir."

"Get going then," the detective snaps. "We don't have all day, people."

"Wait," Santana says as they start to turn away. "You have Abrams in custody, right?"

"Right," Puckerman says.

"Ask him if he knows Matson. Just to check."

"Good idea, Lopez," Puckerman nods in approval. "I'll ask him myself."

"Okay," Santana nods, before bending down to let Brittany climb onto her back. "We'll meet you in Bronx, Sam," she mutters, and scales the nearest building without hesitation.

* * *

It's colder in Bronx than it was in the city, and Brittany reaches down to warm Santana every thirty seconds as they make their way toward the north border. Sam radios in, and they meet him at a café. He stands outside holding three coffees, and Santana has never loved him more.

"Thanks, Sam," she says once she's drained half the cup.

He nods. "I'm gonna get going. Let me know if you see anything."

He takes off, and Santana leans back against the wall of the café with a sigh. Brittany reaches for her hand and they stand in silence for a few minutes while they finish their coffee. Santana knows they should have started ten minutes ago, but right now she just can't force herself to think about anything except Brittany.

"I'm sorry, Britt," she says, eyes downcast. "For all this."

"It's not your fault," Brittany says, her voice clipped.

Santana shakes her head. "This whole _thing_ was my fault. Four years ago we were _normal_. Remember that?"

"Yeah," Brittany says, her gaze fixed on her empty cup. "I remember that."

"I'm sorry," Santana says again, biting her lip and willing herself not to cry. She hasn't cried in two years, and she's not about to start now.

"Don't worry about it," Brittany mutters, but Santana does anyway.

* * *

Sam makes his way to the border and starts to move south, searching fruitlessly for any sign of Matson. He's distracted, though, and he tries to make himself concentrate, but he hasn't had a break for four years and he wonders briefly if his power will run out eventually. Already his legs feel heavier; his senses closer to normal level, and his tracking ability seems to be diminishing. He can't help but hope that this might be over someday, that he might one day go back to working at Starbucks, and this superhero mess might be just a distant memory. He drags his tiring legs across the ground, feeling the blood pounding through his veins and in his head, beating out the rhythm of the nightmare that his life has become.

It wasn't like this when they started it. It was never meant to be like this.

* * *

Santana hops across the buildings, each one seeming like a longer and longer jump until the gap in front of her seems impossible to leap, and she skids to a stop, her chest heaving. She doesn't realize she's crying until Brittany wipes the tears from her face. She sinks to her knees and sobs into Brittany's stomach. "I'm sorry," she whimpers again and again, until it's the only thing she can say.

She's expecting Brittany to comfort her in the way she knows she doesn't deserve, but she's surprised when Brittany drops down beside her, her own shoulders shaking with the sobs that were repressed for so long. "It's too much," she chokes.

"I'm sorry," Santana sniffs. "I'm so, so sorry. It was never meant to be like this. I—I thought—"

"I know," Brittany sighs, wiping her eyes. "Please, please don't blame yourself."

"Why not?" Santana whispers, her hands bunched in Brittany's shirt, the cold wind blowing around them. Brittany reaches for Santana's arms out of habit and warms her. Santana knocks her hand away. "Don't touch me."

"What?"

"I did this to us. Just—don't touch me." She rocks back around on her heels and wraps her arms around her legs, feeling the cold return in full measure. She doesn't know which is worse, the chill or the guilt. They both seep low into her bones, as though racing to see which can break her first.

* * *

"Quinn?" Sam stamps his feet to warm himself as the phone rings. "It's Sam."

Quinn sighs impatiently. "The earbuds are almost ready, Sam. You can't keep rushing me, it's—"

"No, it's not that," he says. "Quinn, when you and Santana—" he chokes a little, not sure how to proceed. "When you and Santana…did the stuff, you know? When you did the stuff, you said it was permanent, right?

"Yes…"

"Are you sure about that?"

"What?"

"I'm slowing down. We're hunting down some guy and I'm slowing down. Like, a lot. I never noticed it before this."

"Get Santana and Brittany over here with you as soon as you can, okay?" She sounds concerned. He nods.

"Yeah."

"Thanks. I'll check it out."

"Bye." His finger hovers over the END button, debating. "Quinn?" he asks.

"_Yes_?"

"Why did you do it?"

She sighs. "Bye, Sam."

"Wait—"

All he receives in return to the question that's been plaguing him for years is the dial tone, harsh and unresponsive.

* * *

Santana sits silently inside the Starbucks across from Brittany, her head in her hands. Brittany sits across from her, not speaking, her hands gripping the edge of the table.

She breaks the silence. "Why did you do it, Santana?"

"Don't ask me that," Santana says harshly. "Don't ask me that, because that's the one question I can't answer."

Brittany grits her teeth. "Why not." It's a demand.

"Shit, Brittany, I _can't_," Santana groans.

Brittany slams her coffee cup down on the table. "Why _not_."

"I don't know the goddamn answer, Brittany," Santana growls, clutching her head in anger. "Ask Quinn."

"I'm asking you."

Santana raises her head to look Brittany in the eye. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she scrambles for it gratefully. She slumps in her seat when she sees Sam's text.

"Quinn wants to see us."


End file.
